August 10, 1846.
On board a steamship, whose name I
do not know.
I went to the mountains of Ardèche in search of a remote spot where there were neither electors nor candidates, but I found instead such swarms of fleas and of flies that I am in doubt whether elections are not preferable. Before leaving Lyons I received a letter from you which made me very happy, for I was really somewhat uneasy. Although I ought by now to be accustomed to your neglect of me, I can not help thinking, when I do not hear from you, that something extraordinary has happened to you. What would be truly extraordinary would be that you would condescend to think of me as often as I think of you.
I regret to learn that you left for D. much later than you had expected, and that, in consequence, your return will be delayed. I do not doubt that you will enjoy yourself very much at D.; but if some thought of our walks should come to you while the pleasures that you love so well are at their height, you would be doing a meritorious act by hastening your return. I made a tremendous hit last night with my rustic companions by telling them ghost stories so gruesome that their hair stood on end. The moon shone magnificently, lighting up the regular features and sparkling black eyes of the young girls, without showing off their dirty stockings and the grease on their hands. I fell asleep feeling very proud of my success with an audience perfectly new to me. The next day, when I saw my Ardèchoises in the sunlight, with their villainous hands and feet, I almost regretted my eloquence of the preceding night.
This infernal boat causes my pen to skip up and down in the most ridiculous fashion. One would have need of a special system of education to learn to write on a dancing table. I am too sleepy and tired to write another word, so I will say good-night. Write to me the day you arrive in Paris, and the following day we must see our woods again. I shall be in Paris the 18th at the latest; more probably I shall return the 15th.
Again good-night.
CXIII
Paris, August 18, 1846.
I arrived to-day in a middling condition of preservation, but my head is still dizzy from travelling four hundred kilomètres without a stop. I need your bodily presence to restore me. But when do you intend to return? That is the question. I suppose you find the sea and the marine monsters far too captivating to think of coming so soon. I need you very much, however, I do assure you. I can not tell you the number of annoyances and disappointments that have accumulated on me during this short journey. I recall Gloster’s dream: “I would not sleep another such night though I were to live a world of happy days.” Returning here I feel more isolated than usual, and more depressed than in any of the cities I have just left. I feel somewhat as an emigrant who returns to his native land and finds there a new generation.
You will think I have aged shockingly during this journey. ‘Tis true, and I should not be surprised if something like the fate of Epimenides were to happen to me. All this means that I am horribly blue and cross, and that I have a great desire to see you. Alas! You will not hasten the time of your return by one hour. I should be wiser to wait in patience. When your gowns shall have faded in the sea air, or when you receive new and fresh ones from Paris, you will, perhaps, think of me, but I shall be then at Cologne, or may be at Barcelona. I expect to go to Cologne the first of September, and to Barcelona in October, for I am told that marvellous manuscripts are to be found there.
They say that a woman enjoys nothing so much as to display her fine gowns. I have nothing to offer you equivalent to such joys, but I can not endure to think that such things as these constitute your happiness. God is all-wise! Whatever may be the news you have to tell me, write to me promptly. Shall we see each other before all the leaves have fallen? Do you mean to have me eat peaches from Montreuil this year? You know how I love them! If you have any affectionate memory of me, I hope it will inspire you to form a generous resolution. I have fever, and my hand trembles abominably as I write.